Tales of the Mundane
by crumpetbeast
Summary: Tiptoe along in the slightly deranged but definitely (ab)normal daily life of one, Hermione Granger.
1. Be Our Guest

**Disclaimer:** I am not even a fly speck on JK Rowling's pen, not to mention the coffee stain on her breakfast napkin probably has more money that I have. I claim no rights, no suey! 

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Prologue: About a Girl

Hermione Granger, straight A student, daughter of dentists. Nothing quite extraordinary about her, really, unless you count that random accident of the gene pool which tossed her into the wondrous world of witchcraft, invited her to attend the famous Hogwarts, and eventually led her into the laps of the pair of boy wonders who would fill out the legendary threesome: Harry Potter (the great), Ron Weasley (the sidekick), and she (the brain). Truth be told, even at Hogwarts she was no rose amongst weeds, exceedingly brilliant, yes, but no diamond in the rough.

You must imagine her alone sometimes, being a girl whose friends are boys as it were, the insatiable bookworm and homework monger whose friends have all the infamy of Voldemort and his minions to deal with (and, in Ron's case, all the hours of pigheadedness to practice for). That girl's a level one, with a practical side. Chase after Voldemort? Nonsense, there's a History of Magic exam tomorrow! Sneak into Hogsmeade? Never, that's breaking school rules! It's not easy being that down-to-earth gal, but someone has to do it. 

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**One: Waking**

Venture if you will up to Gryffindor Tower, home of, you guessed it, the Gryffindors. The Fat Lady is still sleeping, but nevermind the password, you have special permission here as a guest. The common room is empty, the fire burnt low to embers on this unseasonably warm April morning, the paintings not yet roused. Up the stairs and to the right, you'll find the 6th year girls' dormitory, where Miss Hermione Granger sleeps, but not now. Unlike her careful nature, she has fallen asleep with her companion Ron Weasley, who sleeps in the dormitory opposite her own. Enter the 6th year boys' chambers and you'll find her there, dressed in yesterday's shirt and tangled in the gangly limbs of the aforementioned companion like her brassiere was tangled in the pile of the aforementioned companion's clothing on the floor. The house-elves had been conscientious enough to let those garments lie this morning. 

Peek into the curtains and you can see her, thick, bushy hair matted from a rough night's sleep in an underlarge bed with her overlarge bedbunny. He has stolen all the covers, and draft whistles over her bare thigh until _pop_ her eyes are open. Ron snores loudly, punctuating her awakening and sends her dropping ungracefully to the floor with surprise. 

_Oh how embarrassing!_ She scrambles to her clothes and shoves her legs through yesterday's rumpled skirt and retrieves her forgotten underwear from under the bed. _Third time this month, what am I going to do with myself? I'm going positively soft in the head, sacrificing crucial potions study time for a quick romp in the sack with Ron. It's going to go to his head--oh wait, too late. I _do _have my needs though, don't I? _She makes her way quickly to the dormitory door, her feet padding along on the cold floors. Passing the last bed she spots a peculiar lump in the carpet, and yields to her natural curiosity to determine its cause. 

_Bother, it's Trevor. It seems I'm always out looking for that toad, I swear I think Neville's got some sort of deficiency. Maybe its some ploy for attention, either way-- _Suddenly, Hermione found herself staring straight into the wide eyes of Neville himself. 

"Her, Her, Hermione--what are _you_ doing here?" he asked, his pale face hovering above his pathetically juvenile choo-choo pyjamas. _Oh, _honestly, _this is just what I need. Why must I be tormented so, one little slip up and suddenly my cover's blown? Next thing you know, the boys' mirrors will start gossiping._

"Neville," she says cooly, plastering a brainy smile on her face. Her voice is very matter-of-fact when she speaks again. "You're obviously dreaming. Think if your grandmother were to find out you're fantasizing about a,"-she conspicuously tugs at her partially unbuttoned shirt-"half-naked girl frolicking around your dormitory." Neville looks positively horrified at the thought. Poor boy, he really _is_ a bit downtrodden, after all. Hermione nods her head and clucks at him in a concerned fashion, and guides him back to bed.

"Now, Neville, you know you can't tell any of the boys about this," Hermione says in her best imitation of a grandmotherly voice as she tightly tucks the covers round him. "Just think how they would tease! They _are_ quite cruel sometimes, you know. I think it's best to just forget you ever dreamed this, don't you?" He nods, his eyes round and scared. Good heavens, this boy needs a girlfriend. "There now, here's Trevor, all set. I'm going to leave now, and you just pretend this never happened. Right? Good."

Neville squeezes his eyes tight and clenches the bedsheets, hoping, I'm sure, to quickly exit this dream. Knowing his grandmother as he does, he's almost certain just one second more of this wonderfully rumpled Hermione is going to land a howler in his morning porridge—and his sex life, or, more pertinently, his lack thereof, is _no_ business of the entire Great Hall. Hermione takes the opportunity to quickly leave, whistling across the hall silently and into the 6th year girls' dormitory. Carefully now, she shuts the door and crosses the room, avoiding the boards that squeak. Her eyes dart to the beds, tightly shut curtains all around save for Lavender's, but one glance at the honey blonde puffball above the bundle of blankets tells Hermione that she needn't worry about another awkward situation.

She reaches into the drawn curtains of her bed and musses the bedclothes--still perfectly tidy from the day before--into an appropriately slept-in presentation. The house-elves have laid out her uniform, cleaning pressed, on her trunk, and she finds Crookshanks sleeping contentedly on top of it. She draws a smile across her face and lifts the outrageously enormous pussy into her arms. It's a wonder she can lift him really, but she hulks him around lovingly and puts him on her pillow. Now she gathers her clothes and toiletries--no sense hanging around here listening to Parvati snore after all. _I wonder if all those boys would be quite so crazy about her if they knew she could cheat a chainsaw in a log-cutting contest. _She flips her ratty hair behind her shoulder and sighs. A good shower and change, and a quick half hour study session before breakfast is just what she needs.

  


After her shower, Hermione is feeling quite refreshed and clean of the potentially ugly situation that had occurred that morning. She has resolved (again) to steer clear of that brassy Weasley boy, so as to avoid that sort of situation arising again. Besides, he hadn't been much a gentleman last night, claiming that her bosoms were too small--while he pawed shamelessly at them, of course. She examines them carefully in the mirror to make certain he hadn't been on to something, smiles triumphantly, and declares that Cho Chang couldn't hold a candle to them in a million years. The mirror only grumbles crankily in response.


	2. Sausages and Snogs

  
  
**Disclaimer:** I am not even a fly speck on JK Rowling's pen, not to mention the coffee stain on her breakfast napkin probably has more money that I have. I claim no rights, no suey! 

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Two: Morningside

"Guu morny Heriney," Harry says, ever the cheerful, friendly, protector of Hogwarts (and any district unmentioned in the Universe). Hermione deciphers his 'can't-be-bothered-to-swallow' breakfast speech easily, and smiles at him. Beside him, Ron shovels spoonfuls of eggs and runty fried piglets into his wide-open (and, being a Weasley, overlarge) mouth, glancing guiltily upward at Hermione. She quickly tilts her head away and pretends she doesn't notice him, but inwardly whoops at signs of his quick repentance regarding his rude treatment of her the night before. She quickly extrapolates his contrite behavior and calculates that she has, at the very least, a full thirty-six hours before Madame Pomfrey's evil twin shoves a brand new testosterone syringe up his royally freckled arse. At that time, he will fully revert to his normal—and therefore very unpleasant—self, but, up until then, she will milk his reparations for all they are worth. She might even manage a full bag of fizzing whizbees this time! 

She sits across from Harry, carefully crosses her legs and begins to butter her toast with the utmost primness. This morning, she is not just 'one of the guys,' she is the supreme example of worshipful femininity, an icon of affection and adoration. She holds her head up high behind a jug of milk, glancing to and fro about the Great Hall, as though inviting any man who dared to sit beside her (though, with the exorbitant number of books piled up on the bench on either side of her, I'm not sure where'd that'd be). 

Ron has forgotten about Hermione again for now (_that pompous ass_), and is now consuming a plate and a half of strawberry waffles slathered in a gallon of syrup (_hope he drowns_). Harry too, is yet to be unoccupied by his breakfast, and, glancing down the table, it's easy to see that most of the other Gryffindors share his hearty appetite. Sally-Anne Perks, of Hufflepuff, is tossing her hair and gossiping loudly at the table to the right about her night in the Prefect's bathroom with God-knows-who. A glance past the empty Ravenclaw table (being the studious, omnipotent brains of the school, their attention is required elsewhere in more sagacious chambers) would bring mighty Slytherin into view, every student accompanied by their own personal house-elf to wipe their mouth and cut their breakfast cutlets into itty bitty bite-size pieces. 

Most of the students dressed in silver and green are far too occupied with Voldemort's slimy hand shoved up their grandiose arses, but one pair of grey eyes is turned away, shimmering with banners of red and gold. You see none other than Draco Malfoy himself, son of the fearsome Death Eater Lucius Malfoy (otherwise known as the Pansy Whore of Voldemort). In his hand is clutched a small piece of paper, wrinkled and worn from long, loving use. If he were to unclench his perfectly manicured fingers, we would quickly see that it is a photograph ripped from the very bowels of Colin Creevey's own ever-flashing wizard camera, its occupant looking wan and worried as it poked at the torn side of the picture which had once contained the cheerful, smiling faces of the ubiquitous Two—that is, Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. That's right, boys and girls, it appears the snake of Slytherin has a crush, and that oh-so-lucky girl is Hermione Granger herself. 

The first bell is ringing now, and while Draco takes a last, long look in the direction of his unrequited love, Pansy Parkinson of Slytherin trips on an invisible flagstone and falls directly on our Mr. Malfoy, pawing desperately to regain her footing. 

"Oh Draco, sorry there," she says huskily, taking as much opportunity to feel Draco up as possible, letting her hands wander while she pushes her ample buttocks back into Draco-free air space. Draco masks his sigh of contempt into a snarl, but doesn't press the issue. With only a troll, a couple of dragon bogeys, and some ambiguously androgynous character as competition, Draco has become used to the wanton affections of the sexually frustrated Slytherin girls, though he far from fancies them. While it may have made for an interesting assortment of advantageous situations before, now that he had grown attached to Hermione, it had become simply bothersome. Inwardly, he wished the Slytherin girls would just turn lesbian already. 


End file.
